Bellum Internecinum
by X Pyro X
Summary: Imagine, if you will, British SIS sending a liaison to S.H.I.E.L.D
1. Prologue

**Miller: ****b****ellum internecinum**

Prologue

**05:30 04/02/2012, MI6 Control room within Bunker 9 under the Thames.**

"The S.H.I.E.L.D Helicarrier appears to be on the move again sir." said a young man operating a terminal built into the wall, its blue light giving his face an ethereal illumination in the dark room.

An older man, in his mid fifties, gave a soft '_hmm'_ of acknowledgement before running his left hand through his salt and pepper hair and then over his lined face. When he spoke it was in a rich, deep baritone.

"Keep me informed of their movements, I wish to know where they're going what time they'll get there and of all, if any, stops. I also want to be informed of any, and all, departures or landings from or to the Helicarrier. Understood?"

"Yes sir" said the young man in a crisp tone.

"And you there, Miranda, go and fetch Agent Miller. Chop chop people."

_Miranda, _the fair-haired middle-aged woman standing in the door-way turned around and left the room. She headed right after exiting and went up a flight of stairs to an administrations office. As she walked her mind drifted to the Agent she'd been sent to collect, Miranda had been Agent Miller's handler when he was still a junior intelligence officer. As his handler she had become quite close to the Agent in question and vice-versa. After his promotion to special operations and after they were no longer so intimately linked, professionally speaking, the two of them had tried a more romantic relationship. However, sadly, it was not to be and seven months later they had parted amicably and remained friendly if-not close.

shaking her head to clear her thoughts she came up to the office, knocked twice and then entered.

"Dave" she said looking around the seemingly empty room "Dave where are you?"

"huh! What? Oh, over 'ere love." there were a pair of legs sticking out from under a desk, where Dave was doing... something. Whatever that something was, Miranda was unsure.

"Dave, I need you to do something for me."

"what was that love? I can't quite hear you, speak up a bit."

Miranda rolled her eyes before walking forwards, and a with strength belying her curvaceous stature, grabbed his ankle and pulled him out from under the desk. Revealing a thin; tall, reedy looking man of about thirty two. He was wearing a pair of thick tortoise-shell glasses and held a pencil behind his ear.

"Oh get up you fool. Now I need you to get Agent Miller on site for me." Dave looked confused for a moment.

"Agent Miller? Which ones that?" Miranda resisted rolling her eyes, barely.

"Just look him up Dave then give him a ring and tell him to report in here." he gave her sheepish look before getting up and searching through the current roster on his computer.

"you realize its five forty, don't you darling? He probably wont appreciate the wake up call" he said as he picked up a phone and dialled Agent Miller's land line.

Miranda merely pursed her lips. While not on assignment Agent Miller was a creature of habit and the chances were that he was not asleep. In fact Miranda knew that Agent Miller awoke at o'five hundred every morning. By now Agent Miller had probably woken up, completed a few light exercises, had a quick shower and was now sat in the living room of his flat, probably in his favourite Chesterfield, enjoying a cup of Earl grey and a cigarette. She smiled almost imperceptibly at the thought of him sat there, shirtless, in his favourite chair; cup of tea in one hand, a cigarette in the other, a small look of contentment on his face. Her smile soon dropped however when she thought about the fact that he was probably still pining away for that Russian slut. Oh no, she wasn't bitter. Not at all.

* * *

Agent Christopher Miller or Chris to his friends was indeed, as Miranda guessed, currently sat in his favourite chair, A dark wing back Chesterfield, his feet resting on a matching Ottoman. Every now and then he would tap the ash from his cigarette into an ashtray on a small end-table to the right of his chair, also on this table was a small lamp which was currently on and bathing the room in a soft, dim, yellow light. He had finished his tea and the cup sat on a coaster upon a small round table to left of his chair, separating said chair from the low back three seater Chesterfield settee, creating an ell shape down the western and along the southern walls of his living room. His land line phone sat upon this table as well.

Taking one last drag on his cigarette, Chris exhaled as he stood up, stubbed out the butt of said cigarette, picked up his cup and walked into the kitchen. Chris rinsed out his cup, placed it on the drainer and the walked back out of the kitchen and into the bathroom.

He ran his right hand through his thick inky black hair while he stared into the mirror, steel grey eyes encircled by moderate limbal rings stared back as his hand went from his hair to the dark stubble dusting his jaw.

Chris checked his watch: thirty-five past five. he walked back into his bedroom to get ready as he would be leaving for work in ten minutes. Already dressed in; a white shirt, a blue tie, a quick draw shoulder holster and a pair of dark grey suit trousers all he really needed to do was slip on his jacket, his shoes and grab his gun.

A H&K USP45CT a sturdy and reliable handgun chambered for .45 ACP rounds and featuring an extended threaded barrel for a suppressor (currently wrapped and residing within his inner jacket pocket) an under barrel accessory rail, should he ever feel the need to fit a laser sight or torch and finally a high-grade light weight polymer frame. He'd been issued the weapon four years ago, upon being promoted to the special operations division.

Chris pulled his shoes on and bent down to tie them up before reaching into the drawer of his bed side table, pulling out his gun and sliding it into his shoulder holster he then slipped on his grey suit jacket, picked up his car keys and headed for the door. As he was walking past his living room , the phone began to ring.

* * *

**A/K: **Okay, now bear with me, the Avengers shall make their appearance in the next chapter and things shall begin to pick up from there-on-out. Onto those who will dislike and refuse to read this simply because of the major OC insertion. Please, have a little faith. I WILL NOT be making Chris into some sort of sue with lighting from his eyes and thunder from his arse, he will be good, he wont be the best. He will from time to time be viscously beaten, promise. Now, onto pairings I would like to write Natasha/OC and I am unlikely to swayed on that front. That being said I am completely open to suggestions for side pairings; be they slash, fem slash, Heterosexual, cross dimension Xenophillia or even Thor/doughnut. As always, constructive criticism is very welcome, I'm very eager for feedback and please, Have a good day.


	2. Ad Initium

Chapter 1: Ad Initium

**05:40 04/02/2012, west Kensington apartment home of Christopher Miller.**

Hearing the phone, Chris changed course from the front door, to the living room. He stepped up to the small round table, picked up the handset and put it to his ear.

"Hello"

"Agent miller? Thi- Ow ow! Gerrof woman! -Just gimme the phone!"

That voice sounded oddly familiar to Chris, he shifted his weight slightly and swapped hands with the phone. There was a shout of triumph and when the person on the phone spoke again it was with the voice of a woman.

"Hello? Chris, is that you?" '_Miranda' _thought Chris. He smiled slightly.

"Hey Miranda. Yeah it's me, how 'ave you been doing?" he asked lightly.

"Oh, you know me I've been fine, listen the boss wants you down in the cellar today. Room nine. That all right with you? He says something has popped up down there and they need your help." _'bunker nine, eh? Hmm, looks like I'd best put the rubbish out before I go, this smells like an assignment.' _he silently mused to himself.

"yeah sure, that's fine. I'll be there in about 15 minutes, tell the boss I'm on my way." the light, casual tone still in his voice.

they said their goodbyes and Chris hung up the phone, he then walked into the kitchen; pulled the black bag from the bin, tied it closed with a double knot, walked towards the front door, put the bag down by his feet, pulled on his coat (a black mid-length woollen trench), grabbed an umbrella (which he held under his left arm), picked up the black bag with his right hand and left the building.

Chris had dropped his rubbish bag down the refuse chute on the way out of his apartment building and now headed towards his car, a heavily modified black Morgan Roadster 3.7, courtesy of the MI6 R&D team for use on assignment and personal ventures. Probably his favourite toy that R&D had given him in the last four years to be honest.

The car was heavier than stock due to the addition of; armour plating along the body, bullet resistant glass for the windscreen, the soft top roof was now made of Kevlar and the wheels had been replaced with a Titanium-Iron alloy honeycomb wrapped in high-grade rubber treads, making them essentially bulletproof. There were multiple little do-dads, gizmo's and gadgets hidden away as well but Chris wouldn't need any of them today.

He got into the car and hitting the ignition Chris shifted into first and pulled away from the curb, he shifted to second a few moments later and started the short drive to the entrance of MI6's under water bunkers.

* * *

**06:00 04/02/2012 Battersea, London.**

Fifteen minutes later Chris pulled up into a long term car park, killed the engine, got out of his car and locked the door.

He walked about twenty metres from his car and stepped into a phone booth. He looked around for a moment and then, after making sure the coast was clear, he quickly punched in the number: 79776221268. he then pressed his thumb against a small pad that had slid into view upon entering the number sequence. Chris held his thumb against it for about two seconds and then it emitted a small beep and a synthetic voice spoke from seemingly nowhere.

"welcome Agent Miller" the voice held no inflection. It came across as rather eerie.

The booth gave a small shudder and then began to descend into the ground. It was actually a single person lift that doubled as a public phone booth, however when the correct number is dialled and your thumb print recognised it becomes an entryway into MI6's bunker nine, hidden beneath the Thames.

On the other hand, if you didn't have proper authorisation, instead of getting a trip into a top secret Military Intelligence compound you would instead end up taking a tranquilliser in the arse and then wake up two days later in the middle of the car park, wearing nothing but a towel and a traffic cone wondering what in the seven hells had happened to you, and why you felt like someone had beaten you with a pineapple.

The ride down into the tunnel leading to bunker Nine was slow and agonizing. The music pouring through the speakers was the sort of incessant, vile, infuriatingly chirpy, hell-spawned, audible diarrhoea that could only be played within lifts as, were it to be played anywhere else it would start the kind of pain filled and miserable journey that culminated in being stripped naked, tied to a metal bed frame, hosed down and having your balls attached to a car battery.

The music was rather unpleasant.

Every time Chris used that lift it was an exercise in self-control, one of these days he was going to just snap and riddle those speakers full of holes . If he could find the bloody things of course, they were hidden from sight so civilians using the booth didn't find anything suspicious.

He stepped out of the lift (at long last) and set off at a brisk walk down the tunnel under the Thames. The carpet was a bland grey and walls were painted in golden fern grade 5, some over-excitable clerk had told him that when he had incorrectly commented on the _light peach_ paint.

Chris shook his head slightly and continued walking. He passed several suited men and women and every now and then a person in a black BDUs, the people wearing suits were often carrying files to and fro while the uniformed men and women carried MP5 submachine guns. Chris soon came up to another lift , this one requiring a retinal scan just to enter. He stepped up to the scanner and stared, unblinkingly, into the blue light as it flickered and made his eyes water. After about three seconds there was a beep and as the light of the scanner turned green the doors slid open. Chris stepped into the lift. The same eerie voice from the booth lift came again through the speakers.

"welcome, please continue to confirm Identity by pressing your right hand thumb to the scanner and speaking your personal verification phrase into the microphone. Thank you."

pressing his thumb against the pad Chris turned his head towards the microphone, smiled slightly and then spoke.

"Rybakova"

Natalia Rybakova had been the alias of a particularly unique Russian woman whom he had met on his first assignment for special operations. The lift gave a low whine and began to descend. On the way down Chris couldn't help but think of the circumstances that had lead to his voice verification code becoming '_Rybakova'._

* * *

Some four years ago now, Chris had been sent to Moscow. The assignment: To Attend and sabotage, Grigori Andreyev's auction of stolen radiological, biological and chemical components.

In all honesty it was like a black market pick & mix. Now, this bloke, he had everything; spent fuel rods, depleted Uranium shells, Polonium-210, Plutonium-239, Uranium-238, Iodine-131, cannisters of the Tabun nerve agent, a few Tins of Zyklon B, hell even a couple of vials of the Variola virus stolen from an American lab and kept in a shockproof case.

And he was aiming to sell it all off to a who's who of the worlds worst extremists, third world warlords, mercenary's and Dictators.

Now, of course, if MI6 had known about this arsenal beforehand they would have sent a much more senior Agent than Chris. Preliminary reports had suggested that Grigori ran a small arms dealership and that the most he'd encounter would be some spent fuel rods, white phosphorus artillery shells, maybe some CX gas. Not that he was complaining of course, without this assignment not only would Chris have to have spent far longer trying to prove himself as a capable Agent but, perhaps, even more important, was the fact that without this assignment he never would have met Natalia Rybakova.

Otherwise know as Natasha Romanoff or the Black Widow.

Chris exited the lift and turned left down a corridor, unable to suppress his smile at the thought of Natasha, it must have been at least a year since they last met, he'd bumped into her in Prague where he'd been looking into the disappearance of a foreign minister's daughter. Natasha had been doing covert surveillance work for some company or other and had ended up helping him retrieve the ministers missing daughter (whom had been held captive by a group of discontent Romanies of all people.)

Afterwards, wanting to thank her for her help Chris had invited Natasha out for drinks. She had said yes and they'd gone to this little bar on Kaprova street where they had drunk entirely too much vodka and finished the night by sneaking into the Museum of Decorative arts in Prague, while still pissed, and having lots of hot, clumsy, drunken sex.

It hadn't been the first time (the sex with Natasha part that is, the doing it in the museum part however was definitely a first) and it probably wouldn't be the last, presuming he ever saw her again that is. He'd known her for four years, and in that time he'd spent a grand total of one-hundred and sixty-eight hours with her: one week, in four years. Give or take about an hour.

Still, they led busy lives and when they did meet up they hit it off pretty well. It wasn't romantic, not really, they were just friends blowing off steam and offering each other comfort, but he couldn't say that he didn't admire her.

She was beautiful, intelligent and deadly. She could draw you in with her chin length Copper hair, her bright green eyes and her soft smile just as easily as she could snap your neck or rearrange your vital organs. She was lithe, agile and possessed a subtle strength you wouldn't expect from her dancer's physique. She was exceptionally good at what she did and sometimes Chris couldn't help but feel a little jealous at the ease of which she did things. Above all else however, was the fact that, she was indeed a mystery And if there is one thing Chris cannot, _simply cannot, _resist: 'Tis a mystery.

He wiped the smile off of his face as he came upon a door adorned with a brass plate reading 'MISSION CONTROL' in block capitals . This door only required a small PIN code to get in, rather low-grade security compared to the rest of the Bunker, however if anyone got ever got this far in they kinda deserved whatever they were after. That and there where at least three concealed weapon covering the door.

Chris typed in the code: 5345, knocked twice and then entered.


End file.
